All-Star Tintin and Haddock
by AlexGates26
Summary: When Syldavia's mysterious new Prime Minister converts their rocket ships into nuclear weapons, Tintin must join forces with his old enemy Colonel Sponsz to avert total devastation. An adventure that draws on a multitude of elements and characters from the series' long history. (Set after Picaros and assumes all Tintin adventures take place over the course of five or six years).
1. Chapter 1

"Now _that's _more like it; a cool breeze _at last._"

Tintin smiled; they had only stepped off the plan an hour ago but the Captain was already in considerably lighter spirits. It was the impeccably-kept grounds Marlinspike Hall that stretched before them, the boy-reporter decided. The primly trimmed grass that adorned the exquisite old manor could not be more contrasting with their bustling, energetic village in the Orient.

"It certainly was nice to see Chang again, wasn't it Captain?"

"Lovely," Captain Haddock grumbled. "But next time, let's just make it a day-trip; I'm flustered at the thought of having to spend _another _month in that wretched village. Personally, I can't wait to have my feet up with a nice, cool glass of whiskey." He seemed to increase pace on that note, briskly making his way down the long path to the mansion's front door, no doubt eager to unload his heavy suitcase upon Nester, the housekeeper, as soon as possible.

There was indeed a relief to be home though, Tintin thought, as his made to follow his companion. Their holiday to China had too-soon become a month-long adventure, full of the unexpected dangers and hijinx he had come to expect from his trips abroad. But now, with another ancient treasure found, another fortune returned to its owner, and another unscrupulous Turkish businessman duly thwarted, there would be considerable pleasure in joining the Captain in becoming reacquainted with the simple delights of home—though perhaps with a glass of water, only.

"Are you coming, Snowy?"

The Scottish-terrier reluctantly conceded his duel with a small mouse he had discovered amongst the shrubbery, and merrily trotted aside him.

"Master Haddock!" The housekeeper threw his arms around the Captain the second the door opened. "Thank goodness you're safe!"

"Calm down, Nester," Haddock tried awkwardly to free himself from the affectionate vice. "I'm happy to be home, but for goodness' sake, you're not my wife."

Nester quickly restrained himself and returned to his usual dignified demeanour. "Forgive me, sir." He offered, reliving the pair of their luggage. "It's just very pleasing to see you alive and well."

Haddock acknowledged the greeting with a lofty wave of his hand and headed in the general direction of the liquor cabinet, but the comment struck a chord with Tintin.

"Nester, what did you mean, 'alive and well'?"

"Please forgive the dramatics, Mr Tintin, but with everything that's been happening overseas, it wasn't unforeseeable that something—" He shuddered. "—_Undesirable_ could happen to you."

"Recently we've been a little bit... out of the loop." The reporter admitted with a trace of shame.

Nester gasped. "You mean you haven't been following the crisis in Syldavia?" He swiped a copy of the morning's newspaper from the table and thrust it upon the boy. Tintin could hardly believe his eyes; **WAR OVER KRAPOVECH IMMINENT; BORDURIA BRACES FOR ATTACK AS SYLDAVIAN DISARMENT TALKS FAIL.**

"It's dreadful, just dreadful." Nester bemoaned as he continued to read. "I know, of course, Borduria has always been the traditional enemy, but with the unexpected death—I know, of course, he must have been very old, I suppose we all just thought he would live forever—but with the death of Kurvi-Tasch, they're saying Borduria is going to be destroyed by this... _Slobodan Dokovic _character. Just dreadful."

A gruff voice came from the smoking room, "Nester! Have you seen the key to the—"

"Captain, I think you should come in here." He tried to keep his tone calm, having been shaken to the very core by another headline nearer the bottom of the page;** COLONEL SPONSZ OF SECRET POLICE DEEMED LIKELY SUCESSOR TO BORDURIAN DICTATORSHIP.**

Sure enough, the perpetually unhappy face of his nemesis stared back at him from the grainy, black-and-white accompanying picture. The simple delights of home would have to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

The Colonel approached the speaker's podium, undeterred by the wall of stoic faces that watched his every move. Emergency meetings with the Bordurian High Command had taken place before, naturally, but this one marked the beginning of a new era; this was the first such meeting in history not presided over by Marshal Kurvi-Tasch. Colonel Sponsz had the distinction of being the first successor to the nation's leadership.

Such a situation would have been inconceivable only a month ago; after Sponsz had failed in his plot to ensnare his old enemy, the boy-reporter Tintin, in the South American nation of San Theodoros, his rivals in the High Command had tried to use the incident to usurp his position as chief of the ZEP, the Bordurian secret police. The world, however, was a different place a month ago; it was a world in which Syldavia and Borduria were still engaged in the petty games of one-upmanship and cat-and-mouse that had forever defined their international relationship; Slobodan Dokovic was an eccentric millionaire vying for the Syldavian Prime Ministership; and the grounded 'Moon rockets' in the Syldavian mountains were merely a smug reminder of what would befall those who allied themselves too closely with the West.

But now, those nuclear rockets had been weaponized and presented a threat to Borduria's very existence. With the sudden death of Kurvi-Tasch—who had inspired the masses with striking speeches and facial hair since the revolution—the High Command had wisely elected Sponsz as his successor; even with the San Theodoros embarrassment fresh in mind, his record as head of the ZEP was an impressive one. Borduria did not need another speaker, another glorious figurehead at the helm; they needed a strategist, every bit as wily and cunning as this new world demanded (naturally, the minority in the High Command who had voted against this inevitability would soon be dealt with in the traditional Bordurian manner).

"I wish I could speak to you under better circumstances, my friends." His words had a sinister edge, even on the rare occasion he wasn't plotting something utterly sinister. "Like the tragic death of our late leader, the sudden resurgence of Syldavia caught us all by surprise, and we are forced to act immediately. Muskar VII demands that we secede to him the land of _Krapovech_—sacred land, that has been rightfully ours for centuries." There was some truth this statement; the small region of _Krapovech _had been rightfully Bordurian since Borduria annexed it on a whim some 600 years ago. To describe the barren marshland as sacred to either nation, however, would stretch the limits of the famously-limited Bordurian imagination. "He believes he can use his nuclear moon rockets to bully our proud land into submission—rockets which, I am assured by my advisors, present an unfathomable potential for devastation." This surprised a few of the High Command, expecting perhaps their leader to beat around the bush a little longer (Kurvi-Tasch had been a passionate bush-beater).

"But," Sposz pressed, leering down at his comrades through his monocle. "Muskar cannot hope to wield such power. The man is a fool, unfit to rule his own nation, let alone any inch of ours. He is overconfident now, with new toys and a rich Prime Minister, but he lacks the resolve to match the military and political might of Borduria. No, Syldavia is weak. Its weapons are strong, yes, but so are we. Borduria—proud Borduria; Borduria does not lose, Borduria does not falter, and Borduria does not surrender an inch or a mile to its enemy. And if Muskar, or his Prime Minister Dokovic, believes he can change this with nuclear weapons, I welcome the attempt." He seemed to tower over his comrades, a challenge to anyone who would doubt his resolve.

"Because hear _this, _my friends; as long as there is breath left in me, no part of this great land will be ruled by a _Syldavian_. This is a promise, my friends! By the whiskers of Kurvi-Tasch; Borduria will rise once more and Syldavia will return to the dark hole it belongs!"

The stoic wall had broken, and every member of the High Command broke into rapturous applause. Even in the military-centric minds of the men of the High Command—who, it was rumoured, slept in their military fatigues—the thought of international war was a worrying one. However, it was one quickly buried under a newfound sense of trust in Colonel—_Marsha_l—Spon_sz, _and the age-old, irrational faith that the fatherland would always—_always—_come out on top.


	3. Chapter 3

"I daresay this whole mess started when we went to the Moon." declared Detective Thomson (without a P), as he leaned back in his chair. "Wouldn't you say, Thompson?"

"Quite right, Thompson." confirmed Detective Thompson (with a P). "Do you remember that, Tintin? When we went to the Moon?"

"Uh, yes, Detective."

Once more, Tintin scolded himself for failing to keep up-to-date while abroad. Unable to come to terms with the drama still unfolding in the newspapers, Tintin dragged a reluctant Captain back onto his feet to seek out answers from their favourite Interpol Detectives, on-loan to the United Nations' Belgium offices. After much interruption and disagreement over precise details, the pair eventually provided an abridged version of the events leading up to what the press had dubbed 'the Syldavian Rocket Crisis'.

After the resounding success of Syldavia's original Moon rocket (which Professor Calculus had designed, and Tintin, Haddock and the Thompsons had been crew members upon), foreign investment had poured in and the Syldavian government authorised the construction of a further eleven rockets based on the same design, with the intent of sending manned missions all across outer space. This decision was deemed "a bad case of putting all your eggs in one basket" and "a few bad eggs and a basket case, to be precise" by Thompson and Thomson respectively; all of the rockets had to be "indefinitely grounded" after the tragedy that befell Syldavia's follow-up mission to Mars. It was a disaster Tintin did not need to be reminded of; the Mars rocket had exploded during take-off due to a miniscule technical error, killing all crew members aboard. Tintin could not forget the images of the flames if he tried. With all of the nation's money wrapped up in rockets that couldn't fly, investments quickly dried up and Syldavia faced the greatest economic depression Europe had ever seen. After weeks of rioting in the street, it seemed only a matter of time before King Muskar VII was deposed—or worse—through popular insurrection.

In the midst of such chaos, a man called Slobodan Dokovic arrived on the scene; an eccentric Syldavian millionaire that had supposedly been living aboard, making his vast fortune in oil for over thirty years. Dokovic announced his candidacy for Prime Minister, promising to fix the economy and restore the battered national pride. His promises struck a chord with the Syldavian people, and Dokovic was elected as Muskar's Prime Minister in a landslide victory, whereupon he quickly bailed out the entire economy—"with his _own _money", Thompson stressed—and began to open up old wounds with Borduria, the ancient enemy, by making public his intention to take back the long-disputed territory of Krapovech. Tintin studied a large, black-and-white photograph of a man that could only be Dokovic; he stood upon the bow of a yacht (that was, in all likelihood, his own), arms waving excitedly, a bottle of champagne in one hand, glass in the other. His age was hard to determine through the thick sunglasses that rested upon a particularly bulbous nose and neatly trimmed beard, but Tintin estimated the man was middle-aged. Everything about his picture, however, suggested a vivid, wild energy. Was this, Tintin wondered, the most powerful man in the world? The man courageous—or foolhardy—enough to evoke the legendary military might of Borduria and the brilliantly shrewd mind of Colonel—_Marshal_—Sponsz?

"We thought it was all-talk." Thompson admitted. "Keep the masses happy by attacking the old enemy, that sort of thing. Syldavia never had the military capabilities to match Borduria. But, when Dokovic announced he would turn the nuclear rockets into, well, nuclear missiles, we all began to wonder."

"Preposterous!" Haddock declared, before adding, "Is that even possible?"

"More than possible," Thomson assured. "It's ingenious; the rockets are designed to follow a set trajectory, which could effectively send them anywhere on Earth. Theoretically, the nuclear-powered engines could be altered to explode on impact."

"And cause a _nuclear_ explosion?" asked Haddock.

_"_Well, that's what I've been told—it all seems a bit _fantastic_ to me."

"There's nothing fantastic about it, Detectives, rest assured." announced Tintin solemnly. He recalled a conversation he had during the construction of the original Moon rocket. "Professor Calculus once told me about the wonders of nuclear power; he said it has limitless potential to power cities or rocket ships. But if it was used as a weapon—well, he told me it has the power to destroy an entire city in a matter of seconds, to kill thousands of people in the blink of an eye. That's the power Dokovic has, and if he's using those space rockets as missiles, everybody in Borduria is a target." He shuddered. "I doubt even Sponsz could stop that."

"Hold up now, Tintin." Thompson insisted. "We've no confirmation that the rockets are ready to launch yet, and the United Nations has just issued Syldavia an ultimatum, demanding that Dokovic allows independent representatives to oversee the dismantling of his rockets. He's only got four days to respond, or the UN authorises a coalition to do it themselves. Trust me, Tintin, he'll come around; diplomacy will win through once more, and this whole hur-ah will be over by tea time. By the way, what is for tea, Thomson?"

"Even so, Detectives," Tintin said. "A lot can happen in four days. I think it's best that I take a little trip to Syldavia myself. King Muskar is my friend and a good man. I don't know what he's hoping to achieve with this venture, but I daresay he's a little too far under Dokovic's influence. He'll listen to me. I know he will; I saved his regime once before. I only hope Nestor hasn't unpacked my case yet..."

"_You _want to go to Syldavia?" The Detectives were incredulous. "You mean, you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

They exchanged glances, and Thomson said, "Well, you see, uh... It's terribly awkward to be the one to tell you..."

"To be precise, Tintin: this is so awkward it's... terrible!" Thompson pulled free one of the countless papers that suffocated their desk and handed it over after a moment's hesitation. It was a transcript of one of Muskar's recent speeches.

"He's talking about the Mars rocket..."

Thompson nodded grimly. "Keep reading."

"He's... he's blaming us for it!"

_"What!" _Haddock roared, making an effort to snatch the paper from Tintin, who kept reading alloud. "_It is painfully clear that the tragedy that befell the Mars rocket was no accident, but a deliberate act of sabotage and murder committed by foreign insurgents, who longed to keep Syldavia from achieving her destiny. A thorough, independent inquiry has found, beyond doubt, Tintin, Archibald Haddock and Cuthbert Calculus guilty of these terrible crimes. Those we once called friends of Syldavia have shown their true colours, and will never again be permitted to interfere in our politics, lest we have our chance to exert the justice we deserve." _His stomach was knotted; try as hard as he might, he could not imagine his old friend saying such things. He cried, "We had nothing to do with the Mars rocket. Dokovic—it has to be Dokovic; Muskar is under his spell!"

"We know that, Tintin—I daresay Muskar knows it just as well." Thompson assured him. "But in any case, he's made it pretty clear you aren't going to be able to visit him; I'm afraid you'll just have to sit this one out, and let the authorities handle it."

Haddock heaved a heavy sigh beside him. "I think he's right, Tintin. I know Muskar was—is—your friend, and it burns me up just as much to hear him spewing such filth about us, but I don't think we have a choice in the matter; this whole thing—Syldavia and Borduria, rockets and missiles, Dokovic and Sponsz—it's bigger than just us. We're in over our heads."

He was right, of course, but what did he expect Tintin to do? Go back to Marlinspike to read and drink and occasionally watch the Professor test one of his inventions? How could he sit still, knowing that millions of innocent lives were at risk because of his friend? In a sudden flash of courage and brilliant foolishness, Tintin knew that being in over his head had never stopped him before, and it wouldn't now. "Thank you for help, Detectives!" Was all he had time to say before he sped out of the office, leaving a very confused Captain Haddock to catch up.

"I say, Thompson; we were part of the Moon rocket crew as well, weren't we? Muskar didn't mention _us_ in his speech, did he?"

Thompson scanned the paper. "Nope; he just makes a reference to 'a pair of bumbling morons' towards the end."

Thomson sniffed thoughtfully. "I don't think I remember seeing them onboard."


	4. Chapter 4

"That was a magnificent speech, Your Majesty; truly magnificent."

"I should hope so," King Muskar VII of Syldavia replied wearily. His ears were ringing from the cheers of the crowd when he turned from the balcony to face Mr Dokovic. "You wrote it, after all. Did it really have to be so... aggressive?"

"It was merely a case of giving the people what they want, Your Majesty," said the Prime Minister. His eyes seemed to gleam through his sunglasses; it occurred to Muskar he had never seen the man without them. "You may call it aggression—they call it patriotism."

"But all that talk of refusing to cooperate with the United Nations, of resisting international will to the last, of _destroying_ Borduria—it makes me sound like a dictator."

"Nonsense, Your Majesty; those are not the cheers afforded to a dictator. You've shown the world that our new Syldavia will never again be bullied or coerced, and the people love you once more because of it."

Listening to the applause still thundering from below the balcony, it was hard to argue. "I never wanted to be a warlord, Dokovic. They love me for the wrong reasons."

Prime Minister Dokovic cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, Your Majesty, I think it would be best to continue this 'aggressive' line of diplomacy; you cannot afford to fall out of favour with the populace again—lest it become known, by some cruel twist of fortune, that you have lost the Ottokar Sceptre for the second time in your reign."

"I lost nothing!" Muskar shouted. "The Sceptre has been stolen and your secret police are still unable to find the culprit!"

"Be that as it may, Your Majesty, the most important artefact in Syldvian history is no longer in your possession. By law, you aren't even the rightful monarch without it."

"I don't appreciate your insolence, Dokovic."

"Your Majesty," said the Prime Minister firmly, though there was little reverence in the phrase this time. "I have saved your regime once, but do not mistake me for a miracle worker. The people of Syldavia want war and if you valued my opinion in the slightest you would give it to them; they have been on their knees for too long."

Dokovic's insubordination was growing with every conversation they had, but that didn't change the fact that he was, frustratingly, absolutely correct. "How are the rockets progressing?" Muskar asked.

"Well, Your Majesty."

"Remember, if we can secure Krapovech without using them, we are morally obligated to do so. I don't desire being remembered in the history books as the first man to unleash nuclear destruction."

"Naturally, Your Majesty. Until then, though, it is best to relocate to the fortress at Belliscow; the Klow Royal Palace is adequate for addressing the masses, but you remain critically vulnerable. Why, the Boy Reporter himself could charge through that crowd and try to blow your head off."

"He wouldn't."

"Best he is not given the chance."

'The Boy Reporter'—never addressed by his real name—had become a sort of bogeyman in Syldavia. He was always lurking in the shadows, trying to sabotage the nation's progress in any way he could. "Very well; alert the secret police."

"I already have, Your Majesty. We'll be moving in the early hours of the morning."

Upon dismissing his Prime Minister, Muskar had enough time to cast a forlorn look around the room he had only recently refurbished, and one final glance beyond the balcony, at a kingdom that seemed less like his own with each passing day.


	5. Chapter 5

"You must be joking!" roared Captain Haddock as he stormed after Tintin through the corridors of Marlinspike. "Please, Tintin; tell me you're joking and we can all have a nice laugh and go on with our lives. Please!"

"I'm afraid not, Captain," said Tintin calmly, as he search for the passport he had only just hidden away. "It really is my only option."

"Borduria," the Captain repeated incredulously. "You want to go to Borduria."

"Yes, Captain. I'll bet King Muskar _is_ under Prime Minister Dokovic's influence, but he's still the King; I'm sure I could convince him to forget this beastly missile business, but they'd never let me get close enough—they'd never even let me into the country. I'm Syldavia's greatest enemy now."

"You've been Borduria's greatest enemy longer," growled Haddock.

"That's true, but they _need_ me now. Even with our history, I know Sponsz won't turn down the opportunity to sneak me into Syldavia if I can stop those missiles. Say, you don't know where Nestor tucked away the suitcases, do you?"

The Captain strode across the living room, grabbed his young friend very firmly by the shoulders and spun him around. His heavy, black eyes burned into the reporter's. "You listen to me now, my boy; this is Borduria we're talking about. Borduria, Tintin; the old enemy! If Syldavia has the upper hand and they're finally on the back foot, I say so be it. Don't risk your lift rescuing Sponsz and his fanatical clique of fascist fatheads after everything they've done."

"Perhaps Sponsz deserves everything that's happening," Tintin said, gently removing the Captain's hands. "But Dokovic's nuclear rockets won't make the distinction. Once they're operational, no man, woman and child in Borduria will be safe. I won't let innocent people die like that—I just can't, Captain."

"Fine!" snapped Haddock. "Go off, be a hero. Get yourself imprisoned in Borduria or Syldavia or heaven-knows where else. Just don't expect me to come along. I'm comfortable right here, thank you very much."

Tintin nodded. "I would never ask that of you. It's far too dangerous—the adventure of a lifetime."

Haddock stared at him.

Tintin stared back.

The Captain let out a long groan before yelling "Nestor! Where's my suitcase?"

"I just now finished unpacking, sir."

"Pack it again."

They found Professor Calculus outside, idly maintaining his rose garden. He didn't seem concerned in the slightest when told that his friends would be departing again immediately, merely insisting the pair stay long enough to watch a demonstration of what he called his "most stunning invention yet". Considering this was the person that actually designed a way to take man to the Moon, Tintin and Haddock had agreed. Kneeling, the older man removed his circular spectacles and carefully placed them on the grass beside him. The pair watched in anticipation as Calculus pointed out a small button inside the crook of his ever-present umbrella, and held their breath as he pressed it down.

The Professor clapped his hands excitedly, though nothing seemed to have happened. "You see? You see? It works!" He held up the spectacles, which now had tiny spider-webs of cracks covering each of the lenses, and casually returned them to his face.

Haddock sighed, "Calculus, we don't have time for this nonsense. We've got to go."

"Yes, it _was_ quite a show, wasn't it?

"No, we've got to leave."

"Well, I could hardly believe it either, but the proof is there, Captain!"

"No!" Haddock bellowed. "We have to catch a plane!"

"No, no games, Captain, just thorough advances in micro-engineering. But enough praise, my friend; you must be off to Borduria. Here, you can take the umbrella!" He thrust it upon the unprepared Captain.

"It's the middle of summer, Calculus, I don't need—"

"You must," said Calculus, suddenly fierce. "Promise me that it won't leave your side while you're away!"

"Cuthbert, you're acting—"

"Archibald Haddock; promise me!"

"Fine!" Haddock snatched the umbrella and cast a confused look at Tintin. "If it means that much to you..."

Calculus smiled. "Splendid! Now, you mustn't dally. Don't you worry; I will keep the estate in pristine condition while you are away!"

Haddock mumbled his farewell and marched off in the direction of the manor, umbrella under arm, muttering under his breath about senility and Nestor and, quite probably, whiskey. Tintin warmly shook the Professor's hand and made to follow, but Calculus did not let him pull away. "Stop Dokovic, Tintin," he said solemnly, looking him hard in the eye. "I didn't spend the best years of my life designing the Moon Rocket so a megalomaniac could use it for mass-murder."

Tintin nodded. "I understand, Professor."

Calculus released and resumed his simple smile. "Don't forget the postcards!"


	6. Chapter 6

Tintin perused his newspaper with greater haste than usual; they would be landing shortly, and foreign journals topped the very long list of articles not permitted into Borduria. Beside him, the Captain thanked the stewardess for his third glass of whiskey (alcohol being second on the same list), and gently nudged his companion.  
"Dark-eyed lass in the back row, reading her magazine," he said in a low growl. "She won't stop looking at us." Tintin knew which woman he was referring to; she had appeared relaxed enough, but the glances she took while turning pages seemed to endure slightly too long. She was one of only a handful of passengers on the small aircraft; all others were men with a 'strictly business' look about them. Anyone appearing too casual would inevitably be regarded as a spy by one side or the other. "Do you think she's here for us?"

"She couldn't have known we would be here," Tintin reminded him. "I imagine it's standard practice for flights in and out of Borduria." Tintin knew there was some truth in the jokes Westerners liked to make about the secret police in Borduria; _throw a stone in Borduria and you'll be handcuffed before it hits the ground._

Haddock grunted his disapproval. "So what happens when we land? How exactly do we find the most powerful man in the country?—assuming we even get through the airport."

"I'm not entirely sure myself Captain, but I have a feeling he'll find us first."

"I don't like it, you know; this 'lesser of two evils' nonsense—getting friendly with one tyrant to stop another. I miss the days when you knew exactly who the scoundrels were. Blistering barnacles!—I even miss Rastapopolus."

Tintin turned to his friend. The late criminal mastermind had seldom been mentioned since his disappearance off the coast of the Lesser Sunda Islands in Indonesia. "Do you really, Captain?"

Haddock considered the statement more carefully and shuddered. "No."

Snowy stirred in his own seat as heavy drops of rain began to streak against the small windows. The warm and welcoming weather at Marlinspike—the kind of weather in which nothing terrible could feasibly occur—was well and truly be_hind_ them now.

The last time Tintin and Haddock had arrived at the Szohod, Borduria's stern capital city, it was to rescue Professor Calculus, who had been kidnapped by Sponsz' agents in the hope of obtaining the Professor's plans for a powerful, sonic-wave emitter (the rescue was a success, and Sponsz no doubt still rued the absence of a sonic-weapon in Borduria's arsenal). On that occasion, Tintin was startled by the number of soldiers at the airport. This time, he was almost overwhelmed; the rough, armed men seemed to outnumber the ordinary civilians, scowling down at those who passed by, quick to shove along anybody dawdling or haul away anyone looking the slightest bit suspicious.

"Great," whispered the Captain, closing the umbrella Calculus had lent him and shaking himself dry as they entered the terminal. "With any luck, we'll bypass our arrest and go straight to the execution."

They soon found themselves before the desk of a slight and pale customs officer. "Papers?" he asked irritably, without so much as looking up at the arrivals. The ongoing international crisis, it seemed, had not made everybody's job anymore exciting. The pair handed over their passports which quickly—very quickly—looked over and stamped. "What is the nature of your visit?"

Tintin turned to Haddock, who shrugged. Somehow, he doubted 'world peace' would be an accepted response, so he replied "Leisure."

Only then did the officer look up. Tintin could see the answer resonate inside his mind; _nobody came to Borduria for leisure... _He snatched up the passports once more, mouth agape as he reread the names. _You!_ he mouthed, starring at Tintin. His eyes moved to the Captain. _And_ _You!_

Shocked quickly turned to hungry opportunism, and the officer regained composure. "Gentlemen, there appears to be a few minor complications with your passports. If you would kindly follow me to my office..." He indicated to a door in the terminal's corner. Snowy gave a low growl from behind Tintin's legs. Of course, he knew from experience good things rarely came from sentences like that, but the soldiers were eyeing them with keen interest, and he didn't imagine they needed much provocation to shoot. As calmly as they could, they followed the Bordurian through the door and down a dimly-lit corridor and flight of stairs, until he ushered them into an ugly, concrete office. It only took until the door closed for him to drop the facade.

He swung around, finger pointed like a weapon. "Well, isn't this interesting; the dastardly Boy Reporter himself—_and _his drunken sailor friend!"

"Just a second now—" Haddock started, before a sharp and sudden slap cut him off.

_"Silence, cur," _the officer commanded. "You will speak when spoken to. It took a lot of nerve to step into my airport; you thought, no doubt, that you could fool me by using your real names, and disguise yourselves by wearing no disguises. Well, you have to get up very early in the morning to outwit _Georgi Todorov._"

"Sir, we aren't trying to outwit you," Tintin pleaded. "We're here only to cooperate."

Snowy barked encouragingly.

"Save your story, little man," Georgi sneered. "You are the greatest enemy our proud nation has ever known. If you thought I would allow you to enter Borduria, you are sadly mistaken." Quickly and without taking his eyes off the pair, he pulled something from the draw of his desk. Tintin had to stop himself falling backwards when he recognised a silenced automatic pistol in his hand. "Whatever insidious plan you hatched for the fatherland, I have foiled it," he said softy, gun aimed squarely at Tintin's chest. "By tomorrow, Georgi Todorov will be a hero. I only hope Marshal Sponsz will forgive me; I imagine he wanted this pleasure for himself—but in such situations, one can never take chances, yes?"

Haddock raised Calculus' umbrella like an axe. Tintin tensed, but doubted he would be able to dodge the bullet in time. There was nothing he could put between himself and the zealous Bordurian; if he made a point of carrying a weapon, he would have never been allowed to carry it through the airport. Making sure Snowy was tucked safely behind his feet, he closed his eyes.

A loud bang resonated in the tiny space, and Tintin felt a sharp pain explode in his shoulder as he collapsed into the Captain. It took him a second to realise he had not been shot; rather, somebody had thrown open the office door behind him and knocked him off his feet.

"Todorov!" somebody barked in a thick Eastern European accent. "What is the meaning of this?"

As the flashing stars slowly faded from his vision, Tintin could hazily make out Georgi dropping his pistol and snapping a formal salute. "Sergeant Malinov! I managed to apprehend the dangerous spy known as Tintin and his known cohort Archibald Haddock."

"Need I remind you, Mr Todorov, that you were deemed unfit for service in both the Bordurian military and the ZEP? In future, please stick to stamping passports." Sergeant Malinov was a tall man, with very broad shoulders and a moustache that would have made Kurvi-Tasch proud. His dark eyes vanquished any confidence Gerogi had. Tintin recognised the insignia on his uniform as one of the ZEP, Borduria's secret police and Sponsz' old unit. "Naturally, I was aware of our friends' presence since they stepped aboard their plane." Tintin immediately thought of the dark-eyed woman with the magazine, but realised that any—or all—of the passengers could have been agents or informants. "And this, Mr Todorov, is not how we treat our guests."

Malinov helped the still-dazed pair to their feet. "Gentlemen," he said earnestly. "I must apologize on behalf of this buffoon. I assure you, his insolence will not go unpunished." He shook them both warmly by the hand. "Mr Tintin, Mr Haddock; welcome to Borduria."

"Yes, well," said Haddock, tenderly rubbing his head. "Good to know somebody has some manners around here. Hopefully our trip will improve."

Malinov chuckled. "I think not."

Tintin was grabbed around the neck, something forced into his face; he recognised the smell before the word could form in his mind. _Chlorof..._His strength disappeared. The sounds around him were fading into silence, but he could still make out Malinov's thick accent "Mr Tintin is a deemed a Class-A state-enemy; he will be taken before Marshal Sponsz himself."


	7. Chapter 7

Though his vision was still hazy, Tintin could tell the office he was in was substantially more impressive than Georgi's had been; the antique bookshelves were filled with heavy volumes and pewter busts of moustachioed men that Tintin had never seen before, but whose frozen faces glared importance. He realized, as his senses slowly returned, that his hands remained unbound to the wooden chair he was unceremoniously slumped upon. He couldn't see the Captain or Snowy in the room, but that didn't mean they were safe. Furthermore, it didn't mean he was alone.

The man sat calmly behind his desk, observing the stirring reporter as if he were a particularly curious insect, unsure whether to study him or to step on him. His monocle rested as if glued to his face, and the streak of black hair that ran along his otherwise shaved head was neatly groomed, as was his beard.

"Tintin." Hearing his name in that icy voice shocked him completely from his slumber and at last Tintin understood; he was in the office of the most powerful man in Borduria—a man who, on their last encounter, Tintin had humbled and humiliated. He sat upright. As polite as his surroundings were, he knew he was a mere finger-snap away from an ugly world of pain.

"Hello, Colonel."

_"Marshal," _Sponsz corrected patiently. "I have heard that reporters dislike reading the news; it would seem I've inherited a new title since San Theodoras."

"And, it would seem, an entirely new set of problems."

"If you will permit the simplification, international espionage is an unrelenting game of chess; you must develop a strategy to ensnare your opponent and be prepared to change tactics if the situation demands it. You must offer no slack, no hesitation, no mercy; against a worthy adversary, none will be given. Oh, it is a cruel game, that is undeniable, but it is a game nonetheless; the better man _will_ take the upper-hand. And yet..." He furrowed his brow. "Here you are, completely defenceless and entirely at my mercy. I have either been ensnared brilliantly or _you_... are very bad at chess."

Tintin understood his vulnerable position all too perfectly but he wasn't going to be intimidated by the conniving spymaster. He couldn't be. "Where are Snowy and the Captain?"

"Tell me why you're here."

"Where are they?"

Sponsz rose from his own seat and nonchalantly turned his attention to an antique map of Europe that hung behind his desk. There were no windows in the office; Tintin imagined that would be an unnecessary risk for a man like Sponsz. "That savage mutt you keep for company is uncomfortable, but safe. The same goes for the little white dog. Now, why did you come here?"

"Because you need my help."

The man who was required to consider all possibilities had not considered that. He turned sharply.

"Once Syldavia completes their missile project, it's going to usher in a new era of unchecked violence," Tintin continued. "Even man, woman and child in Borduria is going to be at risk, and there's not a single weapon at your disposal that can stop it. But I could. I know King Muskar personally; I think I can convince him to abort the project before people start dying."

"Go to Syldavia then," said Sponsz, before adding. "Oh, but you can't, can you? They've all turned on their hero. How the mighty fall. I must admit, the extraordinary charges of sabotage and murder laid against the 'Boy Reporter' have impressed even me. You know you'd never be able to get near Muskar. And so, you brave certain death and strike a bargain before the devil himself—all to come to the rescue of an enemy nation." His eyes gleamed. "This must hurt you."

Tintin said nothing.

"Naturally, I foresaw the charisma of Slobodan Dokovic and the danger it would pose; shortly after his election I arranged for one of my agents to operate undercover in the Klow Royal Palace. As the danger of the missile project posed became clear, I ordered him to blow up the palace and kill both Dokovic and the King—an act that would have triggered total war, no doubt, but Syldavia without her leaders would be nothing but a headless snake. Without warning, however, both King Muskar and Dokovic relocated to the military stronghold at Belliscow, in the heart of the mountains. Were it not for that decision, you would not be sitting before me." He spoke matter-of-factly; to him, death was a business, a responsibility. "I think you are insane; even with the ZEP's assistance, attempting to personally contact the King of Syldavia in the midst of such a crisis remains the most audacious covert operation ever undertaken. However, from my perspective, it is an agreeable proposal; if, by some miracle, you manage to succeed, Borduria is saved. If you fail..." He pointed his finger. "You will be killed."

_Naturally, _thought Tintin with more than a slight feeling of bitterness.

Sponsz stroked his beard thoughtfully, and then nodded slowly; the absurdity of two bitter enemies cooperating was not lost on him either. "I will arrange for you to be smuggled into Syldavia. And, just so you know I don't trust you for one second, I will assign two of my agents to accompany you until your mission is completed or compromised. Belliscow is a fortress; don't be foolish enough to assume you and your sailor friend could find it without them."

Tintin didn't like the prospect of being followed into such a volatile situation by two hulking Bordurians at all, but knew Sponsz wasn't a man that changed his mind. He let out a sigh of relief; the insane gambit had paid off. "Then we're agreed?" Tintin stuck out his hand a little awkwardly, as if to close a business deal.

Sponsz stared at the outstretched hand before leaning in frighteningly close. "You would be wise not mistake the temporary cessation of hostilities for 'agreement', Mr. Tintin." His words were as calm and pronounced as ever, but his eyes were murder. "You continue to breathe only because it is convenient for me. You have humiliated me twice; once in my homeland, and once in San Theodoras. For a man of my honour, that is two occasions too many. It pains me to know I will watch you walk out this door without a knife in your back, but I assure you; once this crisis subsides and Borduria returns to her rightful dominance—and believe me, Mr. Tintin; she always does—you will once again have my full attention."

Tintin met the spymaster's gaze. His hands were free; he could wrap them around Sponsz' neck and—win or lose—bring an end to their bitter rivalry, like he knew one day he would have to. But it wasn't today; the ramifications of the Syldavian missile crisis were greater than just two people. He unclenched his fists. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Marshal." At that moment, it was impossible to judge exactly who held more contempt in their eyes.

"Splendid," Sponsz declared, moving back behind his desk. "Then, for my love of homeland, I will wish you the very best of luck on your suicide mission. You may show yourself to the door, Mr. Tintin. Until we meet again."


	8. Chapter 8

Sponsz had arranged for Tintin and the Captain to be smuggled into Syldavia via an old dirt road that wound its way perilously through the mountains, guided by two agents disguised as members of the Bordurian Orthodox Churh. Though state-based religion had long-since been abolished by Kurvi Tasch, faith remained one of the very few things that could unite the peoples of both Borduria and Syldavia and there had always been a miniscule degree of unspoken tolerance for men of the cloth. The two of them—along with Snowy, at Tintin's insistence—had been bungled into the back of mule-drawn carriage amongst piles and piles of dusty old volumes and encyclopaedias, the Captain still holding the Professor's umbrella and clutching it to his chest every time their wheels thudded over a crack in the narrow road—which, as they ventured deeper into unfriendly territory, began to sound more and more like gunshots.  
Haddock cursed loudly as a heavy copy of _Flora and Fauna of the Eastern Balkans _fell onto his head. "Blistering barnacles!" he yelled to the driver. "I was in the navy for twenty-five and I never had conditions this bad!"  
"You were in the _merchant _navy, Mr Haddock," came the driver's curt reply. "In my country, it is a severe crime to lie about national service. I would advise you to lower your voice; we have officially crossed into Syldavia and I'm concerned Prime Minister Dokovic himself is going to hear you."  
The two men assigned to Tintin and Haddock in their mission were not strangers; the slight, sneering Kronick and his stoic, solid sidekick Klumsy of the ZEP had previously been assigned to follow the pair when they arrived in Bordura to rescue Professor Calculus. Judging by the looks they exchanged, the agents had not forgotten that Tintin had succeeded in getting them remarkably drunk at dinner and given them the slip.  
Still, they were allies now, and Tintin knew a lack of trust could easily get them all killed. "How long have the two of you worked together?"  
"That is classified," Kronick said from the driver's seat at the same time Klusmy casually revealed, "Since the war."  
Tintin heard the slighter of the two men sigh. "We learned the importance of loyalty under extremely challenging circumstances." The way he spoke suggested he wasn't going to reveal anything more, though the way he said 'challenging' made Tintin unsure as to if he wanted the agent to continue.

"I don't know how you do it," the Captain said gruffly. "All the tricks; the blackmail, the kidnapping—the murder; why, it's all just part of the job you secret-police types."

"Would you do something different in my position, Mr Haddock?" Kronick asked.

"Well, of course! I'd do what was right!"

Kronick handed the reins of the mule to his comrade and turned to face the Captain, sitting uncomfortably amongst the heaps of books. "I am curious; is there a new science in the West that teaches when something is right?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Perhaps your great Professor Calculus has invented a miraculous machine that measures how 'right' something is, as easily as one could measure the length of a piece of string?"

"Of course not, but—"

"Do not fool yourself, Haddock." He tapped his chest. "'Right' comes from _here_ and nowhere else; if my comrade here and I continue our 'tricks', Borduria will one day achieve unrivalled greatness in the world and there can be lasting peace. You risk your life because you believe you are right. In this, we are no different."

Klumsy interjected before the Captain could offer a furious rebuttal. "Up ahead. Get down."

"I thought there were no patrols along here!" Tintin said. Snowy growled.

"There weren't meant to be," hissed Kronick. "Quick, stay low and don't make a sound. I will handle this."

The reporter hurried to pull a dirty linen sheet over the three of them in the back. "Tintin!" the Captain whispered, cap fallen across his face and clutching the umbrella once more. "They're going to hand us over the first chance they get! Let's make a break for it now!"

It was all too tempting to escape out the back of the carriage and disappear into the forest, but Tintin grimly held a finger against his lips and flattened himself amongst the old book as best as he could, silently wondering how difficult it would be to mistake his physique for an encyclopaedia set.

The carriage drew to a halt. _"__Papers. Now!" _shouted somebody in thick Syldavian with an authority that told Tintin he was comfortably armed.

"Patience be with you, brothers!" he heard Kronick say in a long, faux-pious drawl. "We are but two Bordurian holy-men, on a goodwill mission to our sister-parish across the border. We carry nothing but books to enrich the young minds of Syldavia."

Papers were exchanged and the man grunted. "_Perhaps you are holy-men—or perhaps you are saboteurs; perhaps you carry poisonous Bordurian propaganda; perhaps you smuggle the Boy Reporter himself into our mighty nation! We won't know until we tear your little wagon apart."_

Tintin's fingers tightened hard around the nearest volume, but then another, younger man laughed. _"__Would you calm yourself, Mladen? These 'Boy Reporter' tales have stirred your old blood." _From nowhere, a long arm grouped underneath the sheet. Haddock pressed a hairy hand across his mouth as the searching fingertips brushed against his shoulder before closing around a book. _"__You see this, my elderly friend? 'Flora and Fauna of the Eastern Balkans'; a poisonous piece of Bordurian propaganda, no doubt. These men have clearly endured a long journey. Let them be on their way." _He tossed the book back into the carriage.

"A thousand blessings upon you, young man," Kronick drawled.

"_And to you, good sir." _Tintin let out a silent sigh as he felt the carriage begin to move once more, but it stopped abruptly. _"__But before you depart, friend; it says on your papers you are traveling to Krascow town?"_

"Indeed; there lies our sister-parish for many years, in times of both war and peace."

"_What a happy coincidence! Would you believe it, I am a boy born and raised in the very town."_

"What providence," Kronick agreed weakly.

"_I remember well the parishioner there; Father Milovanovic—a Bordurian man himself originaly, though we tried not to hold that against him. Ah, but do I waste your time; considering you are so familiar with the place, naturally you will know him well."_

"Well—naturally." The mere second of hesitation would not go unnoticed, Tintin knew.

"_I am shamed to say, I have not seen the old man in far too many years. Tell me; how does he fare these days?" _It took the smallest of whimpers from Snowy to make the reporter realise how tightly his clammy hands had been clutching his pet. Haddock's face was whiter than the sheet that concealed him and he looked equally ready to either run for his life he emerge from hiding place swinging his umbrella like a battle-axe.

"He—" Kronick stuttered. "He is—"

Was that the sound of a rifle being cocked?

"He is most agreeable," Klumsy spoke suddenly, deep voice undisguised. "—when he is sober."

The only sound came from the crows nesting in the trees. Then, the young solider conceded a grunt, which soon became a chuckle that quickly gave way to a hearty, bellowing laugh. _  
"Yes, that does indeed sound like old Milovanovic! Do your best to keep him from the communion wine, would you? On your way, gentlemen, and may God be with you."_

The mule kicked up and dragged them away once more. Kronick eventually spoke after what could have been a decade of not breathing. "All is fine, for now."

Tintin and the Captain emerged from beneath the sheet, hearts racing. Snowy whispered and rolled over. "You!" the Captain said, pointing at Klumsy. "Did you really know that Milovanovic fellow he was talking about?"

"I have never heard of him."

"Well, how the devil did you know he loves to drink?"

The agent turned to them, stoic face somewhat ridiculous in the fake grey beard he wore and replied, quite solemnly, "Because he is Bordurian."

For the first time on their journey, the four men shared a laugh; knowing it may well be the last one they would get to enjoy, they shared it until nightfall.


End file.
